


Meet the Parents (and try not to die)

by willowcrowned



Series: Lose All Your Senses [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Dwarf in the Flask, M/M, Meeting the Parents, No beta we die like mne, Roy whines about the weather for a page straight, half of this is just Trisha messing with Roy, the other half is everybody else making plans to mess with Roy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26436787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowcrowned/pseuds/willowcrowned
Summary: “Mrs. Elric,” Roy greets, offering his arm.“Mrs. Elric was my mother,” she replies, taking his arm and looking at him cooly. “You may call me Trisha.”Roy gets the distinct feeling that if he doesn’t call her Trisha, he’s going to get a knee to the groin and a knife to the throat. “Of course. Shall we?”
Relationships: Edward Elric & Chris "Madam Christmas" Mustang, Edward Elric/Roy Mustang, Trisha Elric & Roy Mustang
Series: Lose All Your Senses [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1880170
Comments: 44
Kudos: 454





	Meet the Parents (and try not to die)

**Author's Note:**

> To everyone who left a comment on the last installment: Thank you for the lovely remarks (especially the two of you who talked about moral philosophy, because nothing amuses me more than the fact that I was talking about _moral philosophy_ in the comments of _fma fic_ ). They got me through midterms and are the only reason this was finished so quickly.
> 
> Unbeta-d because my beta is FINALLY going to watch fmab and I refuse to spoil any more than I already have for her.

The park is a mass of brown grass interspersed with a few bare oaks. Concrete pathways crisscross through it, a grey that matches the patchy clouds above. It’s stark and cold, with no barriers against the freezing wind that sweeps through it. Roy huddles farther into his coat, regretting rejecting the option of a driver for the relative anonymity of walking. Part of him still holds by that decision— he does not want an audience when he meets Ed’s mother— while another, much colder, part of him is cursing his desire to keep hold of the modicum of privacy he has left. 

Central was built on the sprawling plains of Amestris, springing up amongst the long grasses and spreading out until the only remnant of the prairies it was built on is its lack of defenses against extreme temperatures. It gets frigid in the winter, the frostbitten air burrowing itself into the concrete and canals, and melts in the summer, until the whole city is a mess of sweat-slick exhaustion and bubbling asphalt. 

Roy, who spent a good bit of his childhood in the east, where the heat is dry and the winters are mild and rainy, and most of his teens in the west, where the cool summers at least made up for the freezing winters, hates it. The only vaguely redeeming factor of Central’s godawful weather is the fact that it’s guaranteed to snow at least a few times in the winter— the good, sticking, kind of snow that gets put on postcards and sung about when people are pretending that the wintertime isn’t the worst. This year, however, Central has neglected to even give him that much. It’s only snowed once, back in November, and the flurries barely lasted half an hour. 

He had let Trisha choose the location, though ‘let’ implies that he had had any choice in the matter. She had suggested the park, and he had agreed, in part because he was taking the role of the polite and indulgent boyfriend, and in part because he was fooling himself into thinking it couldn’t be _that_ bad. As he huddles into his coat and scarf, cursing the air for being dry enough to sting his throat _and_ cold enough to threaten actual, genuine, frostbite, he reflects that yes, it can damn well be _that_ bad. If he’d known, he would have put his foot down and demanded they meet for coffee inside like reasonable people without a death wish. 

Because no one else is foolish enough to go walking in the park in these temperatures, he can spot her easily. She’s sitting on the rim of the empty fountain, looking very small and very ordinary and very much the opposite of what he was expecting. 

Trisha Elric is a slight woman, almost fragile-looking, with a standard, almost boring, shade of brownish hair. She has none of her sons’ unusual coloring, nor the influence of their odd, infectious, charisma, and is, in fact, nothing short of entirely unremarkable. 

Then she looks up, and he’s forced to reconsider his assessment. 

Her eyes are glowing in the sunlight, a bright green with flecks of gold, and there’s something calculating in them, intelligent and cool in a way that freezes him from the inside out. She is clever, she is unimpressed, and she wants him to know that. Trisha Elric may be slight— even fragile— but she has none of the unassuming blandness that she seems to be projecting. 

Well, at least this won’t be boring. 

“Mrs. Elric,” Roy greets, offering his arm. 

“Mrs. Elric was my mother,” she replies, taking his arm and looking at him cooly. “You may call me Trisha.” 

Roy gets the distinct feeling that if he doesn’t call her Trisha, he’s going to get a knee to the groin and a knife to the throat. “Of course. Shall we?” 

“Let’s.” 

She’s unnervingly silent for the first thirty seconds. Trisha doesn’t look at him, instead choosing to observe the uninspiring landscape of the park. 

“It’s not much to look at in winter,” Roy offers. He could have kept the silence, of course, but he thinks that would be the wrong move. He’s as good in a ‘I won’t talk first’ stand-off as anyone he knows, barring Riza, but he doubts that Trisha is looking for a half-hour of silent tension. “Unless it snows, naturally.” 

“I suppose so,” Trisha replies. “Still, it’s rather nice to be in the open air, isn’t it?” 

She doesn’t sound like she’s asking for his opinion; she sounds like she’s asking for his unquestioning assent. Alright. If that’s the sort of game she wants to play. 

“I find the cold a little too bracing, unfortunately,” Roy replies, hoping he’s guessed right. It is, of course, possible that she had been looking for something else— a comment on not being overheard, maybe— but he’s 95% sure he’s made the right move. (Granted, 95% is still fairly low odds for him, but he’s made worse assumptions for better reasons). 

“Is that so?” She says approvingly. “I wonder that you didn’t suggest an alternate venue.” 

“I wasn’t under the impression that I had much choice in the matter,” Roy replies. She’s likely the sort of woman who enjoys being told that she’s intimidating. 

She raises an eyebrow as if to say ‘Your attempt at a compliment has been noted, and found lacking.’ Ah well, at least he has experience with clever women who find him lacking. 

“One always has choice in the matter,” Trisha says with the sort of cavalier tone that makes him think that every single layer of meaning that he might be making up is, in fact, entirely intended. 

He grimaces. “Perhaps it would be better to say that I thought it wise, at the time, not to contradict the suggestion.” 

“That doesn’t excuse inaction.” 

Well, they’re certainly not talking about the choice of venue anymore. 

“No,” he says, “it doesn’t. Still, though the damage is done, we might prevent it again.” He pauses. “I would certainly be happy to continue this discussion inside.” 

“I would be amenable to that,” Trisha says. He suspects that’s as much approval as he’s liable to get from her. 

“There’s a small café you might like near the south entrance,” Roy says, “shall we begin heading that way?” 

She gives him a slight nod, and he turns with her to a new path. 

As they walk, he looks over the woman at his elbow again, trying to reconcile the subtle, cool, woman beside him with Maes’ intelligence of a lovely housewife, and Ed’s reports of a terrifying and wonderful mother. 

Trisha gives him a knowing look, as if she can tell what he’s thinking. “I suppose I’m not exactly what you were expecting.” 

“Well,” Roy says, searching for the right words, “you must understand, I’ve been subject to conflicting reports.” 

“Oh?” She quirks an eyebrow. “Is your intelligence a little unlike my character references?” 

He coughs awkwardly. It’s rather disconcerting that she had suspicions he had been gathering any intel at all, let alone that she was sure enough in her guess to inform him of her knowledge. “A little. You are... an odd housewife.” 

“I’m sure whatever you’ve heard is exaggerated.” 

Roy has heard that line from an Elric before. It has never, ever, been true. “I’ve not been told much at all, actually,” he says, which is technically true, as he’d read the few records of her that Maes had been able to scrounge up. “The most I’ve been told is that I should be afraid of you, and that you’re the only person in Ed’s family who pretends to be normal.” 

Trisha wrinkles her nose in amusement. “Trust me, Roy Mustang. You have very little to fear from me.” 

“And here I was under the impression that you had come to threaten me into submission,” Roy replies, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

“Oh,” Trisha replies breezily, “I’ve no need of that. I’m sure whatever threat Al has come up with is more than enough already. He’s rather better at the physical aspect than I am.” 

“Ah,” Roy says, realizing with some trepidation that Al has not, in fact, threatened him yet. If it were someone else, that might come as tacit approbation. From Alphonse, it’s more likely that he’s just working up to something truly horrifying. “Well.” 

“Oh,” Trisha says lightly, a slight smirk making its way onto her face, “has he not done it yet? You’re in for a treat.” 

“That’s not how I’d describe it,” Roy mutters. 

“Of course not.” Her smirk widens. “You, after all, are the one being threatened. I wasn’t under the impression that victims often enjoy the crime.” He must have a truly alarmed look on his face, because she looks highly entertained. “Metaphorical crime, I mean.” 

“Ah.” That does not comfort Roy as much as it should. 

Trisha’s lips twist wryly. “I assure you, General, we are a law-abiding family. You’ll find no fault on our records.” 

Roy snorts. “The first doesn’t necessarily follow the second.” 

Trisha cocks an eyebrow at him. “I’ve no idea what you could be implying.” 

“I would never imply anything,” he says smoothly. 

She gives him a look identical to Ed’s ‘I know you think you’re being funny, but you’re actually just being stupid, so knock it off.’ Well, that explains where he learned it. 

Roy shrugs innocently. 

Trisha gives him an unimpressed look before switching topics. “I understand you were responsible for Ed’s involvement in the gossip columns.” 

Roy grimaces. “That was... a mistake.” 

“Oh?” She sounds disinterested, which Roy is taking to mean that she is very, very, curious. 

“It was very fortunate that he found them amusing,” Roy says casually, pretending as though he’s not choosing his words carefully, aware of the minefield before him. He has no idea how much she knows, and he’s certainly not going to give her more than she’s already figured out lest it reflect badly on him. On the other hand, if she notices that he is purposefully _not_ mentioning something she’s aware of, it’s going to make him look very guilty indeed, “but I might have done more to warn him of it.” 

“Ah,” Trisha says mildly, “and that’s why you set it up?” 

Roy blinks, surprise coming over his features for a second before he can school them into something more neutral. Even if she’d known that, he hadn’t expected her to come out and say it. Which, he reflects, is probably what she was relying on. 

He chances a glance at her to see that she’s looking at him with some degree of satisfaction; she must have seen his surprise. 

“I wasn’t under the impression that you wanted to talk politics,” Roy says finally, because that’s exactly what they’ll end up doing if she asks for his reasons, and it’s highly unlikely that she’ll find them adequate. 

“Later, perhaps,” she suggests, and that alone is enough to give him nightmares. Trying to justify his views to an eternally unsatisfied public is bad enough, but trying to justify them to his lover’s mother, who seems to be enjoying tormenting him, is far, far, worse. “In any case, if that bothered Ed, he would have said something about it. Or,” she corrects, “knowing Ed, he would have done something about it. As it is, you should be glad he found them funny, instead of offensive. He’s much more even-tempered than he used to be, but he’s still rather... well, I suspect you know.” 

“Even-tempered?” Roy asks, trying not to laugh on the off-chance that she’s not actually making a joke. 

“Oh, yes,” she says, “he’s mellowed out as he’s gotten older.” 

“Mellowed out,” Roy repeats, unbelieving. 

“Quite.” She turns to him with a look of mild amusement. “He was much more violent when he was a teenager, yelling at everything and everyone at any perceived slight. Of course, the official story is that he’s always been passionate, but I haven’t had to use that line since before Al started looking out for him. You understand how teenagers are.” 

“I spent most of my teen years in an old house studying alchemy,” Roy says dully, trying to process everything she’s just told him. He gets the feeling that she’s enjoying keeping him off balance. He doesn’t know why he expected anything different from an Elric. 

She laughs delicately, more of a chuckle than anything else, and he suddenly feels very small and very young next to her. Trisha and his aunt would get along great, he reflects ruefully, which means that they can never, ever, be allowed to meet. 

“In any case,” she continues, “I suspect that you would be nursing a black eye if he hadn’t grown out of it, what with all those articles about your innocent, young, boyfriend from the country.” 

For one second, Roy can very clearly picture exactly what she’s talking about. Ed, much shorter and angrier, threatening to punch him not with the good-natured equanimity Roy is accustomed to, but with genuine frustration and determination. He shivers, and resolves never to imagine it again. He can barely deal with a pissed off Ed as is. A pissed off teenage Ed, the tumultuousness of whose hormones could only be matched by his constant and inveterate desire to punch something? Roy would be dead. 

“I suspect I would,” he agrees. 

They’ve reached the gate of the park by that point, and Trisha stops. 

“Are you satisfied?” She asks. 

“With what?” 

“Your individual assessment of me.” Her lips twist wryly. “Instead of a café, we might go meet with Ed. He’s not busy.” 

“Ah,” Roy says, because he knows where Ed is and he most certainly doesn’t want to bring Trisha there. 

Somehow, she seems to know what he’s thinking, because the beginnings of a smirk are playing around her lips. “Is there a problem?” 

“No,” Roy decides, already regretting it. “Let’s go see Ed.” 

“Maes,” Ed says as they step in the doorway, “this is a brothel.” 

When Maes had said that he was going to show Ed something interesting, Ed had not expected this. It’s a nice place— clean floors, good lighting, none of the sticky residue that seems to gather on surfaces at bars— but it is still, quite obviously, a brothel. 

Maes looks around, faking surprise very terribly for someone whose job is espionage. “It’s only four o’clock.” 

Ed snorts. Maes knows as well as he does— probably better, actually— that people don’t have to wait until it’s dark out to start soliciting. 

“Is this supposed to be some sort of test?” 

“Maybe.” Maes shrugs. 

That’s Maes-speak for ‘Yes, but not the sort of test you’d expect from your boyfriend’s best friend when he brings you to a brothel.’ 

Ed catches a glance of one of the girls as they make their way across the room. She’s pretty— very pretty— with the sort of face that screams ‘I put on tons of makeup every morning and I’m so good at it that men think that I’m shallow, which means it’s easier to stab them in the eyes with my stilettos when they least at expect it.’ She looks a little like Ed, actually— dark blond hair, coppery skin— so maybe it’s just wishful thinking. He’s never quite been able to nail the whole femme fatale thing— the few times he’s tried it’s ended up with either Winry or Teacher laughing at him mercilessly as he tries to fix his eyeliner— but he’d like to believe he has the looks for it, even if he doesn’t have makeup skills. 

He frowns. He knows her from somewhere— maybe a newspaper?— but where could he have seen— 

Oh!” He says. “Is that here?” 

Maes nods, a slight smirk touching the corners of his mouth. 

He guides Ed across the room, settling at the corner of the bar and nodding to the woman behind it in greeting. She’s heavyset, with nicer jewelry than he’d expect— the proprietress instead of just a bartender, probably— but she’s clearly familiar with Maes, because she raises an eyebrow at him, gives Ed a significant glance, and then looks back at Maes as if to say ‘What are you doing and why?’ 

Maes grins at her brightly, and she sighs. She’s clearly used to him. 

There’s something oddly familiar about the woman, Ed realizes, watching as she pulls out a bottle of gin from under the counter— something in the curve of her face, the planes of her hands— that reminds him of someone he knows, though he can’t quite place it. 

She turns to him, blinking once, slowly and lazily. There’s something in the way she looks at him— clever, calculating, but not quite ready to show the depths of her intelligence— that’s oh so familiar. A grin spreads over Ed’s face. So that’s where Roy got it. 

“No way,” he says to Maes, “No freakin’ way.” 

Maes smirks. 

“This explains so much!” Ed says gleefully. 

The woman raises an eyebrow at him. “Madam Christmas. Call me Chris. Pleased to meet you.” 

Ed grins at her, eyes alight. “Nice to meet you too.” 

“Really, Maes?” She asks him, tilting her head at Ed. 

Maes holds his hands up in the air in surrender. “I can’t speak to Roy’s taste.” 

“Oi,” Ed scowls at both of them, though he’s still too delighted by the new information to put much force into it, “Watch it.” 

The woman gives Maes a look. “I meant, what were you doing bringing him here?” 

“He already knew,” Maes assures. 

Chris frowns at Ed. “He told you?” 

Ed rolls his eyes. “No way, he’s too weird and cagey about it to ever do that. About a month in I asked him if the dates he went on for his intelligence network weren’t just covers.” He had actually done that, was the thing. He straight up walked into Roy’s house and went, “Yo, Roy, y’know the women who are a part of your intelligence network? Are the dates with them real or just a cover?” 

“And what did he say?” Chris asks, looking deeply amused. 

“Something about relationships and love that I tuned out. I’m pretty sure it boiled down to ‘no, they’re not actually dates, and oh god how and why do you know.’” 

Hughes snorts. 

“Honestly,” Ed continues, “I’m surprised more people haven’t figured it out. It’s, what, eighteen women? With a few randos thrown in? I just had to go through a few years of some society papers.” He sees the looks Chris and Maes are giving him. “What? I do my research!” 

“I like him,” Chris decides. “He’s strange.” 

“Not as strange as Roy,” Ed mutters, which is probably objectively not true, given who his dad is, but it’s about the principal of the thing. 

Maes snorts. “You weren’t freaked out by the whole brothel thing?” 

“Real subtle, aren’t you?” Ed eyes him. Ugh, this is probably another test, like ‘I’m being this blunt in the hopes of shocking you into complete honesty, so are you going to be polite about the sex workers (and if you’re not I’ll dump your body in the canal and tell Roy it was an accident and he should get over you anyways.)’ Probably. Ed is just spitballing here. 

He looks at Maes, whose face is perfectly open and curious except for the tiny calculating glint in his eye. 

Okay, Ed’s definitely not just spitballing. 

“Just a line of work, isn’t it?” Ed shrugs. “It explains his whole ‘sexuality is my weapon of choice’ thing.” 

Maes eyes Ed like he’s trying to figure out if Ed could tell he was testing him. “Hm.” 

Ed raises his eyebrows in a challenge. 

“Nothing,” Maes decides finally, “but did it really not surprise you?” 

“I mean, yeah, obviously,” Ed says, “‘cause it’s not, like, a typical upbringing. But I wasn’t weirded out or anything. It’s not like I haven’t been around sex workers.” 

Maes blinks. “Didn’t you grow up in the country?” 

Ed snorts. “I spent most of my teens in Dublith, which, okay, is more along the lines of underground fight clubs, but my mom made sure me ‘n Al knew what sex work was like so we would know how to be careful if we ever tried it.” 

It’s true. Teacher had given them the ‘keep your hands to yourself, don’t be pushy, and only touch if you intend to pay’ talk, but it had been their mom who had actually taken them. 

The weekend before Ed and Al had headed up to Central for University, the three of them had stopped in South City for their mom’s version of a quick-and-dirty ‘here’s what you need to know to be a functioning adult’ lesson. Since Teacher had covered the sex talks, bills, drinking, cooking, and laundry, all their mom had done was make edibles with them in their weekend apartment kitchen, and made sure they knew what sex work looked like, in case they ever got curious (and she had given them a stern lecture on it being a ‘perfectly reputable line of work, but extremely difficult, so stop joking about dropping out and doing it just to pay the bills, both of you.’) 

“I can’t wait to meet your mother,” Maes says. 

Ed snorts. “You and Roy can switch places, then. He needs someone sensible like Gracia in his life, and you can go get gutted by my mom in return.” 

Maes gives him a baleful look. “You’re not my type.” 

“You wouldn’t have a chance with me anyways," Ed huffs.

Maes snorts. “Actually, while I’ve got you, I’ve been meaning to ask how you two met.” 

Ed looks at him, surprised, then looks towards Chris, who is listening intently. “He hasn’t told you?” 

Maes pouts. “I know. My own best friend keeping secrets? From me?” 

“He’s keeping you distracted,” Ed tells Maes, knowing Roy is going to make him pay for this later (and not in the fun, sexy way, but in the ‘oh did we run out of every single type of food except milk and weird health food stuff that you hate? I hadn’t noticed’ way). Whatever. Still worth it for Maes owing him one. “He knows that if he drips information about me into conversations with you, you’ll be too occupied with theories and complaints about it to show him pictures.” 

Maes lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “I know, but it’s in my nature! I can’t help but be interested!” 

“You don’t have to let him know that,” Chris points out. 

Ed grins at her. “Didn’t realize you were the type to make Roy’s life hard. We should start a club. Invite Hawkeye.” 

Chris blinks at him once, slowly. “Remind me to get the baby pictures out for the next time you come.” 

“Baby pictures?” Ed is pretty sure that there’s a manic glint in his eye. 

“Oh yes,” Chris replies, “there’s several of him drawing arrays. One time I caught him using keys to scratch them into the paint on his wall while he was supposed to be napping.” 

Ed isn’t sure whether to be endeared or delighted, because while that’s objectively so cute, it’s also more proof for his growing arsenal of evidence that Roy isn’t actually cool or suave, no matter what he claims. “ _Please_ do.” 

Maes snickers. “He hates those ones. Says he wasn’t cute enough to justify pictures.” 

Ed snorts. “You mean he’s annoyed that everyone focuses on the fact that he’s a massive nerd?” 

“Yep,” Maes says. 

Ed grins. “You know the only reason I saw him a second time was because of his library? It’s fucking incredible.” 

“So the wine-and-dine routine didn’t work on you?” Chris asks, looking mildly impressed. “I taught him that one. He’s very good.” 

Ed snorts. “He never got that far. By the time we stopped talking alchemy or having sex long enough to have a conversation, he’d figured out that I’d eat him out of house and home if he tried.” 

“My pockets aren’t that shallow,” comes a voice from behind him, “I just assumed that you would be much less interested in me if my library wasn’t available. 

Maes turns. “Hey, Roy. I didn’t realize you were planning to meet us.” 

“I wasn’t,” Roy says genially, “but plans change.” 

Ed snorts. That’s Roy’s ‘Please god don’t call me on having been bullied into this, I don’t think my ego can take the hit’ voice. Judging by everyone’s matching expressions, they all know that. “Hi, mom.” 

Ed looks to his mom, who has a distinctly amused twinkle in her eye. Well, at least she hasn’t gutted Roy in a van and come to do the same to him. Small miracles. 

“Trisha Elric,” she introduces, coming forward to shake Maes’ and Chris’ hands. 

“Maes Hughes,” Maes volunteers, smiling at her charmingly. “It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you.” 

Trisha smiles back. 

“How come it works when he does it?” Roy complains under his breath, coming to settle on the stool next to Ed. 

“Because he isn’t screwing my son,” Trisha says, not even looking at Roy. 

Roy jumps, and Ed cackles. He loves watching his mom turn her scary good hearing on other people. 

Chris gives his mom a long, searching, look before letting go of her hand. Something must dawn on her, because she gets a look in her eyes like she’s figured something out and plunks a very expensive bottle of gin down in from of Trisha. 

“I know you,” Chris says. “You were the one who organized the anti-military protests in East City about twenty-five years ago.” 

His mom smiles self-satisfactorily. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she says primly. “Those had nothing to do with Trisha Elric. I’m afraid you’d have to talk to Annalise Wilgen.” 

Chris raises an eyebrow, and his mom smirks. 

_Holy shit_ , Ed thinks. He has never, not once in his life, _ever_ seen his mom smirk. It is quite possibly one of the most terrifying things he’s ever seen. 

“The ones that managed to keep those Ishvalan segregation acts from going into effect in East?” Maes asks, sounding impressed. 

“Executive Decrees 5946 and 5947,” his mom supplies, “‘Being an order to promote justice and peace through the expulsion of inflammatory groups from residential districts.’” 

“You’re a legend,” Roy says. Ed turns to him to see that he’s gone dreamy-eyed and starstruck. _Ugh_. “Hundreds of people arrested, and only fourteen brought to trial, all acquitted.” 

His mom smirks again, which is still as terrifying as the first time he’d seen it. “It’s truly unfortunate that Eastern Command was so unprepared for mass arrests. Why, even most of the paperwork that was supposed to be filed for each arrest happened to be lost under the inundation.” 

“I suspected you were behind that.” Chris gives her an approving look. 

Trisha blinks absently and smiles, back to her normal housewife self. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. It really is too bad that paperwork is so flammable.” 

Maes, Chris, and Ed snort in unison. Huh, looks like they’re all familiar with flammable paperwork. That doesn’t really surprise Ed. 

Roy still looks starstruck as he turns back to Ed. “Every one of your family members is more terrifying than the last. I’m a little scared to meet your father.” 

Ed snorts. “Don’t worry, he’s lame.” 

“You have to know that that’s not reassuring, coming from you.” 

“No, seriously!” Ed protests. “He’s basically just a professor, but, like, terminally on leave so he doesn’t have to live in the city.” 

Roy lets out a small sigh of relief. “Thank god. At this rate, I was worried he was going to end up being the Philosopher of Xerxes.” 

Ed chokes, then slowly looks at his mom. She’s doing the thing where she presses her lips together to keep from laughter. 

“No,” Ed says, “No fucking way.” 

Roy and Maes look at each other, then they look back at the two Elrics, confused. 

Trisha presses her face into both her hands, shaking from silent laughter. “Ed,” she says, still breathless as she looks up, “I like this one.” 

Roy blinks. “Is he... a descendant, or something?” 

Ed has to focus very hard to keep himself from breaking out laughing. 

“Did he research the Philosopher?” Roy asks. 

Ed wipes a tear away. “Sort of, yeah.” 

His mom manages to get a much better hold on herself, calming down so completely that the only evidence that she’d been losing it right alongside Ed is the blush in her cheeks and the amused look in her eye. 

“I’m sorry,” she says sincerely, “but it’s not our story to tell.” 

“Right,” Roy says. He has a sharp, shrewd look on his face, which Ed knows means that he’s deeply, deeply, confused. Classic Roy: pretend to not know what’s going on when you’re running the room, and pretend to know exactly what’s going on when you’re not. Ugh, he’s such a politician. 

Ed is mildly disgusted to realize that a rush of affection went through him as he thought that. A politician? Is he fucking serious? (He is, unfortunately, totally serious, which probably means he should go see a therapist. It’s probably a symptom of something. At least, Ed hopes it is, because the alternative is far, far, worse). 

“Hey, look,” Ed says, mostly to distract everyone else from the Philosopher-of-Xerxes questions and to distract himself from his own line of thinking, “it’s snowing.” 

Everyone turns to look out the window to see that it is, in fact, snowing. The flakes are small and falling slowly, and the light outside has dimmed in a way that suggests that the cloud cover has gotten much, much thicker— the sort of weather that means it’s going to snow for hours and hours and hours, and that it’s going to stick. 

“Huh,” Chris says, “I hate to cut this meeting short, but there are some plans I need to change.” 

“Of course,” Ed’s mom says brightly. 

“That’s for you.” Chris gestures to the bottle of gin on the counter, scribbling something down. “Call it a thank-you for getting me out of jail.” 

“Oh, you needn’t—” Trisha protests, but Chris just gives her a stubborn look. 

“And this is a private phone number. Call me if you ever get into any trouble.” Chris passes her a note with a number written on it. 

Trisha raises an eyebrow. “If I ever get into any trouble?” 

“Or if you want to,” Chris amends. 

Trisha smiles, getting up. “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

Ed hops out of his seat as well, the other two following. He looks between Roy and his mom, and his mom gives him a look that alternately means ‘I’m old enough to walk myself to the hotel’ and ‘Go see your boyfriend. For heaven’s sake, it’s been three weeks, and you’re getting insufferable.’ 

He grins, turning to Roy. “Mind if I walk ya home?” 

Roy rolls his eyes. They both know what that means in this weather. 

“Yes, he would,” Maes answers, once it’s clear that Roy is going to do his typical I’m-not-going-to-say-yes-because-it's-implied-but-also-because-plausible-deniability-so-people-can't-use-this-to-tease-me-later routine. 

Chris snorts behind them. “You come back too,” she tells Ed. “I’m usually free on Tuesday afternoons.” 

“Oh hell yes,” Ed says, “you owe me baby pictures.” 

“Baby pictures?” Roy asks, horrified. 

“Baby pictures,” Ed repeats, trying his best not to smirk. His best clearly isn’t enough, because Roy gives him a betrayed look. Ed just grins at him, and after a moment the melodramatic look of dismay morphs into something softer. 

“Home,” Roy says, looking outside, where the flakes are already beginning to stick. 

There’s the usual mess as everyone slips on coats and scarves, compounded upon by all the bar patrons trying to leave as well, and then they’re all standing outside, tilting their heads up to see the snowflakes spiraling down. 

Ed gives his mom a hug. 

“I like him,” she says, quietly enough that only they can hear. “No nonsense, once you get past the mess on top.” 

Something in Ed relaxes— something he hadn’t even realized was tensed, waiting for her verdict— and Ed is smiling when they break apart. 

Their party splits, then, with his mom and Maes heading one way, and him and Roy heading the other. 

Ed looks over, eventually, to see that Roy has turtled himself into his coat until he looks like nothing more than a bunch of messy black hair peaking out of a scarf and coat. He looks totally ridiculous, and really cold. 

Ed pulls off his hat and jams it onto Roy’s head without asking permission, and Roy makes an indignant squawking noise that resolves itself into a muttered ‘thanks’ once he’s bothered to pull it down around his ears. 

“I hate winter." Roy huffs, wrapping his scarf more tightly around his face. 

“It’s not all bad,” Ed replies thoughtfully, watching the wandering flakes drift down onto the street. “The snow is pretty nice— we don’t get it in Resembool.” He turns, only to see Roy giving him a warm, unfathomable look. 

“You have snowflakes in your hair." Roy's tone is dry, but he's still giving Ed that same strange and wonderful look. 

Ed huffs softly. “Yeah, well, bring your own hat next time.” 

Roy gently elbows him in the ribs in reply, but he doesn’t say anything more. 

The streetlamps click on, illuminating the streets with pools of warm light, and the two of them continue home as the snow turns the city white and still.

**Author's Note:**

> Ed: Hey can you stop looking at my mom like she’s every answer to fuck marry kill 
> 
> Roy: No <3


End file.
